Resident Evil: The King Strain
by JB Stone
Summary: Claire Redfield had moved on. For years, she craved normalcy, the very thing she had lost in Raccoon City. But a new man has brought those memories back to life, and in a shack in Upstate New York, a madman creates a new T-Virus...The King Strain.
1. Prologue

_Thanks in advance for reading this, guys and gals. I hope everybody enjoys it. You could say that this is a very short introduction to the story, a prologue of sorts, and I apologize for it's brief length. A quick history: I vaguely remembered writing a story for a few years ago, but couldn't for the life of me remember what it was about. After a search using my pen name, JB Stone, I found it. To my disappointment, I found only a single chapter dated March 20th, 2001. After wracking my brain for the plotline, I gave up and decided to go with a new one based on this first chapter and the story's tagline: "The final Resident Evil story." Originally titled "Resident Evil: Omega" I revised the lone chapter and came up with this shorter, but in my opinion, better introduction. (A quick note: I stole the format for the chapter heading from Steven King's short story 'The Sisters of Elthuria' I feel it works better as a plot point advisor as opposed to the standard Chapter 1, Chapter 2, ect.)_

I.

Joe's Apartment/Claire & Joe/Love, Actually

The thunderstorm had fallen silent an hour or so ago, and Claire watched the passing cars with a heavy caution; She didn't need another shower. Not after the hours it took to perfect the look she would still call "Claire De Frizz."

Her calves and heels started aching five blocks back, and the young woman cursed her womanhood briefly. Not for long, though, as she nearly danced at the thought of the man she was making this incredible journey for. If not for that cursed womanhood, she would not know Joe, and that would be a bad thing.

As she counted the paces that really hurt, Joe's building came into view. At the small set of steps that led to the apartment buzzers, Claire tried to remember if Joe had claimed to be a "Best-Selling Author," or "An Aspiring Author." She felt her skin crawl at the dingy brick exterior, and as she pushed the iron-wrought door open, she wanted to take her skin off and shake it clean on the sidewalk.

Fighting her sudden nausea and her two angry feet, Claire forced her voice to ring with the perk and charm that had won Joe over in the first place. "Hey, it's Claire!"

"Hey! Hold on a sec," he said. There was a pause, then an obnoxious buzz. "It's open. I'm in 7A, at the end of the hall on the right."

The buzzer room had not prepared Claire for the dungeon that was this hallway. From spider webs on the ceiling to pieces of a few ancient, long-since-shredded carpets on the dirty wooden floor, this place was a dump. Joe, for his part, was as handsome a man as had ever approached her, and on that fine March night at Jezzabelle's in Midtown she had no problem letting him work his magic on her.

It was that instant, animal attraction that the most passionate of lovers have, if only for a brief time. And passion they shared. They made love--scratch that; they fucked--three times the first night they met. Joe was as incredible a partner as he was a looker, and soon, Claire found the passion giving way to a genuine interest in the man. He was clever, funny, witty, charming, and all of the other superlatives you could use about the most perfect man ever in the history of ever. White smile, toned and tanned, head full of close-cropped hair. He was gorgeous in mind and body.

As she rapped awkwardly on the rotting door, Claire tried to remember those things and supplant them where the memory of this apartment building would be.

Joe opened the door with a smile and a look of playful worry. She smiled back, but couldn't figure what the face was for.

"It's a dump, I know."

_I was thinking the exact same thing! _"Oh, come on. You should've seen my old place!" She scoffed with a fake laugh.

Joe motioned her into the small-but-cozy flat, and she was instantly less hesitant about walking in without a biohazard suit. Actually, the place wasn't bad. Small, yes, but not dirty like outside. Clean, well kept, and as the lemon PineSol hit her nose, she realized that the hallway had a very pungent urine smell to it that she was very glad to be away from.

"Can I take your coat?" He offered. Claire obliged and walked with long strides into his home.

"So…nice place!" She said through a fake smile. While it was sort of true, she still couldn't get the horror of her walk through the hallway from hell out of her mind.

"Yeah, nice try, lady." Joe smirked. "I wish I could say something cliché' like 'well, home is where the heart is,' but this," He said with a broad sweep of his arm. "is not my home."

Claire, through surprise and a bit of annoyance, managed, "So…you don't live here?"

Joe hung Claire's coat on the rack, then sighed. "No, and I guess I should have told you beforehand. I like to come here to, I don't know, get 'in the mood.'"

"Oh," Claire nearly meowed. "I see."

"Oh, no, not like that, sweetie. I meant 'get in the mood' for writing. I do my best work here!" He corrected with a grin.

"This is your office, then? Sweet deal, Joe." She nodded, a huge weight taken from her chest.

The next hour were spent eating a wonderful chicken marsala dinner with a few glasses of white wine at the modest dinner table nestled in a corner of the flat. They finished their meal, and after some nice conversation, Joe kissed Claire. Not with a passionate, fast-tongued kiss, but a deep, meaningful one. A slow one, that started with their noses brushing gently, followed by a confident but careful meeting of the lips. It blossomed into a long kiss, one that would linger for the rest of the week. They fucked--scratch that; made love, three more times that wonderful night. And the morning came too soon.

Next Update:

II

The Question/Goodbye, Joe/The King


	2. Chapter I

II

20 Miles Outside Schenectady, Upstate NY

April 10th

Yellowed by air and cigarette smoke, newspaper clippings hung neatly from the walls around Fred Gant's cot. James Marcus' picture graced many of the articles, and his old, wrinkled face had the grandfather quality to it that made Fred comfortable. It made Dr. Marcus' appeal go beyond his scientific research, at least to Fred.

With Dr. Marcus' soothing gaze upon him, Fred lay sleeplessly on the small, lumpy cot, wracking his brain for ideas, for answers. The key was just beyond the gates of his imagination, that much he knew, but Fred could not wrap himself around it. He looked with frustration at his desk across the room, knowing that the unanswered equations scratched into the warped pine surface begged for solution that he could not yet provide.

He stroked his rough beard thoughtfully as he left the 10 X 12 wooden supply shed that had become his home. Examining the exterior reminded Fred of his first days there, when he had found it by accident during an aimless walk through the woods. He used to do that often, taking long walks in the secluded woods beyond Interstate-90. Fred would tell his wife that they helped him clear his mind and keep his body strong. But in truth, the trips he took into those woods, known to the locals as "Hell's Gates" was Fred Gant's journey into a place much darker.

Fred knelt behind the shed, and looked closely at an old inscription, running his fingers across it. It read "Heaven's Heroes in Hell's Gates." He recalled scratching it into the shed with his pocketknife, but the details of that day were blurry, and Fred could only presume the feeling of comfort and peace that swept over him as he read it must have been what he felt when he wrote it.

Daylight had a hard time breaking the leaf-and-branch ceiling of Hell's Gates, making a noontime walk through the woods seem like dusk. As a result, it was always much cooler there than outside, and Fred had come prepared. Donning a sturdy old pair of Levis and a heavy flannel coat that morning, he knew he wasn't planning on coming home soon. As he passed through his kitchen on his way out, Fred grabbed the black MagLite from on top of the refrigerator. He kissed his wife on the cheek who told him that his dinner would be in the microwave when he got home.

If he could go back today, Fred would hug Emily Gant hard and long for her returned love and thoughtfulness. He often wondered if she still left him a plate in the microwave at night.

The woods were dark that day, more so than usual due to the cloudy September sky, and despite his warm apparel, Fred immediately felt the cool air rush through him. He left his bicycle at the edge of Hell's Gates, just off of the highway, and began his walk.

Immediately, he felt that feeling…the feeling that hurt his brain so badly but kept him coming back every Sunday. It was a song and a scream, he would have described had he ever shared the story with anyone, and it was as beautiful as it was painful. It was not a pain that made Fred clutch at his head and fall to the ground, but a pain that made his thoughts hurt, where a single memory could trigger thousands of emotions, so of which he had never experienced before.

The first of which he called "Lull." It was a serene feeling, but a disabling one as well. It was like a poison that made you feel good even though you couldn't move. He felt it that day, though he had yet to name it, and it happened when the screaming in his head began.

He stumbled a bit, steadying himself on the nearest tree. The lull hit him hard that first time, and he was happy despite the pain. The screaming slowed, like a tape player when it's batteries are about to die. Fred soon found himself unable to walk away from that tree, but was quite content with popping down in front of it.

From a thick patch of trees a few yards ahead, a young woman appeared. She was singing--or screaming; he couldn't tell the difference--and now Fred knew the source of the pain and strange emotion. He still felt the lull, but as she approached, dressed in a tattered white gown and translucent, Fred felt a sharp pain in his hand and an odd sense of remorse. Later, Fred would name this emotion "Puv."

The woman approached, seemingly floating above the dirt and fallen leaves, and he face became clear. A thin nose pointing to thin lips and a narrow chin. Her eyes very wide and big, almost cartoonish in appearance, but very beautiful. Fred could see no color in them. Fred wondered later if that was because her hair was so black…a black he had never seen before. So deep and penetrating, he could not look away from the flowing locks as they tossed around behind her in the wind that wasn't blowing.

_Great things you are obligated to do, Doctor. _

_He could not believe his ears. Her lips did not break from the screaming song that hurt his brain, but her voice took the foreground and shot into his consciousness like an arrow. He knew what she meant immediately, and the puv grew sharper. _

_Do not ignore these tasks any longer, Doctor. You disturb the order of things._

She backed away, disappearing as suddenly as she appeared. The puv receded, as did the lull. Fred found himself saddened, though, and wishing he hadn't wasted so much time. A loving wife, a lucrative and satisfying career--all a shroud to prevent Fred from seeing his true goal! Weddings and paychecks, all for what?

Why couldn't he see the truth before? Why did it take months of walking through terrible pain in these woods for Fred to see that he should have been working here, in Hell's Gates, on the very thing he was put on Earth to do?

Beyond the thick patch of trees the young woman had disappeared into, stood a shack. Complete, weatherproof and sturdy, Fred liked it. He liked it very much. He felt a peace and comfort swim through his body, and an inspiration that he hadn't felt in years. Grabbing his pocketknife, Fred knelt behind the shed and carved into the wood.


End file.
